


Cat & Mouse

by starspangledmanwithaplan



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Female Reader, Gen, Reader is a cop, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, more to come - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-05-18 13:48:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14853954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starspangledmanwithaplan/pseuds/starspangledmanwithaplan
Summary: Steve Rogers is multi-millionaire philanthropist, co-founder of a non-profit that aids and rehabilitates veterans, and the Most Eligible Bachelor in Brooklyn. With the spotlight shining bright overhead, Steve becomes the latest victim of The Brooklyn Bandit; a thief that has made away with almost $5,000,000 in cash and rare jewels.After dead ends and embarrassing headlines, Sergeant Fury doesn’t think the Bandit case is one that can be solved. Rather than pour any more man hours into it than absolutely necessary, he assigns Y/N Y/L/N - a first year detective - to the case.Half a million dollars was stolen right out from under everyone’s noses, and there’s not one shred of evidence. With a point to prove and a give ‘em hell attitude, you throw everything you’ve got into solving the case. Too bad you hadn’t prepared yourself for the latest victim’s dazzling smile and generous heart.





	1. Breaking & Entering

[ ](https://star-spangled-man-with-a-plan.tumblr.com/image/174442886649)

* * *

 

He had to be quick, though. There was a party, another one of Steve’s fundraisers, bringing attention to the men and women that protected the nation, to the ones that paid an unbelievable price, and if he didn’t hurry, he might have run the risk of getting caught. Which he couldn’t deny was the main reason he was currently on a burglary streak.

Shaking his head, he secured the bag to his back and easily slipped out the way he had come; through an unmonitored door that hardly anyone knew about. He was behind the wheel of his car, the motor running, pulling out of the parking lot of an abandoned lot several blocks away when the alarm sounded.

* * *

Champagne glass in hand, Steve approached the podium. “Before everyone goes home tonight, I wanted to give you all the good news,” he announced, silencing the buzz of chatter in the large room. “We not only reached our goal, but we’ve raised three times the original amount!”

The room was filled with shouts and cries of triumph, and there were balloons falling from the ceiling. Several couples hugged and kissed, multiple friends raised their glasses in salute, but none of them really mattered. It wasn’t them he was raising the money for. It was people like his best friend, Bucky, people that had been injured in the war, losing limbs to IED’s, being captured and tortured by radicals. Those were the real heroes. Not Steve, not the million dollar donation by an anonymous donor. None of them knew what is was like to make a sacrifice.

Bucky was at the bar, smirk tugging at his lips, glass of whiskey in his right hand. He raised it in salute and tossed back his head, gulping down the hundred year old amber liquid in one swallow. His wife, Natasha - the leggy redhead that had a penchant for sticking her nose where it didn’t belong - was sipping from a glass of red wine. She arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow at Steve and raised a hand, wiggling her red-tipped fingers at him.

Clint, Steve’s other best friend, and handicapped army veteran, clapped a hand to Steve’s shoulder as he exited the stage. “Don’t know how you do it,” Clint murmured, his other hand fiddling with the new set of hearing aids.

“Doing what I gotta do to help get funding,” Steve admitted.

Truth be told, he hated speaking in front of large crowds, drawing attention to himself, it all made him feel like a dancing monkey, even though it was to raise millions of dollars for the men and women that came home - injured and mutilated - to a country that would inevitably fail them, pretend their injuries weren’t that severe, that all the soldiers needed to do was think happy thoughts.

Steve was tired of seeing the injustice, the barbaric treatment of America’s finest. So, he had a chat with fellow philanthropist and friend, Tony Stark, and together they started a non-profit. All of the money raised went towards the medical treatment of injured veterans, providing them with expensive surgeries, state of the art prosthetics, physical therapy… anything and everything the government failed to provide, at no cost to the veteran.

“We appreciate it, brother. More than you know,” Clint smiled, clapping Steve’s shoulder once more. At the sight of Clint’s wife, Wanda, his entire face lit up. He jogged across the room, his shiny shoes squeaking on the glossy floor.

Steve watched as Clint wrapped his arms around his wife, and spun her around, kissing her heatedly. There was a sting of jealousy at the sight, but he honestly didn’t have the time for it; dating, falling in love, getting married. As if she could hear his inner monologue, Nat was striding purposefully towards the bachelor. Hoping to avoid her, Steve turned to dive into a conversation that Tony was having with Thaddeus Ross, but she was too damn fast, even in her four inch heels.

“Walk with me, Steve,” she purred, her hand sneaking along his side, coming to a stop on the inside of his forearm, pulling him into a slow walk.

With a tight smile, Steve held his arm against his side. “My pleasure, Nat,” he murmured.

It wasn’t that he didn’t get along with his best friend’s wife, he did. She was amazingly loyal, sweet, caring, smart as a whip… almost too smart. While he wanted to keep his private life just that, private, she was set on finding someone for him to go out with, get married, live happily ever after, the life Bucky had, the life Bucky wanted for his friend.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Steve asked, smiling warmly at Rhodey, another injured veteran that had just enrolled for physical therapy.

Natasha barely waited until they were outside. “I’ve got this friend-”

“No, Nat,” Steve snapped, pulling his arm away as if he had been stung.

“Why not?” Natasha asked, eyebrow arched once again.

Steve scraped a hand over his face. “It’s just… it’s not something I want right now.” It was a blatant lie, one he had told himself time and time again in hopes of convincing himself that a wife and kids were not what his heart desired most.

“You gotta get out there, Steve.” Nat dropped a hand to Steve’s and squeezed. “Look, I know Bucky and I give you a lot of shit, but we just want you to be happy.”

“I am happy.” And he was. Helping his friends and their friends, their brothers and sisters in arms, it had given Steve a purpose he hadn’t had before. He was doing something meaningful with his life, with his family’s money.

Nat’s lips pulled into a tight smile. “I know you are.” She pushed up and pressed her red lips into Steve’s beard, wiggling her nose as the whiskers scraped her skin.

“You movin’ in on my girl?” Bucky called as he approached.

“Never in a million years,” Steve assured his friend.

Natasha laughed and slapped Steve playfully in the arm. “You couldn’t handle me, Steve.”

Bucky slid his shining prosthetic arm around his wife’s waist and kissed her cheek. “I hope you’re behaving yourself,” he teased Nat.

“When have I ever not behaved myself?” she sighed happily, her hand resting on her husband’s chest, fingers drifting over his black tie. At that comment, both men broke into laughter, not paying any mind to Natasha or the look of faux-offense on her face. Unable to pretend to be upset, Nat joined in, and was clutching her side a moment later.

Tony was jogging towards the trio just as they were composing themselves. “Rogers,” he called. “Might want to answer your phone every now and again.”

“What, why?” he questioned as he dug into his pocket. There was a series of missed calls and voicemails from his cleaning lady, Maria, his building’s security, and Steve’s heart started to race.

“There was a break-in,” Tony answered, glancing over Steve’s shoulder. “I already called for the car.”

* * *

With a heaving sigh, you dropped into the chair and kicked your legs up onto the edge of your desk. You had just spent the last fifteen minutes with Sergeant Fury, all but begging for a case, any case, to help out the team. Turned out, the newest cases went to Brooklyn’s finest, and that term only applied to higher ranking detectives, not first year grunts. Since it was your first year as a detective, and you had just begged for a case, you got put on the Bandit case.

Sam Wilson, your partner and good friend, gave a chuckle. “That good, huh?”

“I got us a case,” you admitted, hands folded on your stomach.

“Yeah? Which socialite are we going to rush in and save at the last minute?”

You couldn’t help but snort as you watched him. “Hate to burst your bubble, Sam, but it’s not that kind of case.”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “Someone important has been abducted and we have to find out who did it within forty-eight hours.”

Another unladylike snort erupted from your nose. “Not even close.”

“There’s been a series of threats made against the mayor -”

“It’s the Bandit case,” you muttered, cutting off his fantasy-driven tirade.

He was shaking his head as he leaned back in his chair. “Uh-uh,” he argued. “Boss calls it unsolvable.”

Your phone rang just then, three quick chirps in rapid succession. “Y/L/N,” you gruffed, your head lolling back, eyes squeezing closed.

“Seeing as how you have the Bandit case,” Fury said coolly. “Thought you’d want to know there was a break-in at the Rogers residence.”

You swallowed around the knot in your throat. “Rogers, as in Steve Rogers, sir?”

“There’s the ace detective work that’ll get this case solved,” Fury snapped. “Yes, Steve Rogers. Half a mill was lifted earlier.”

“On our way,” you assured your boss. Shoving out of your chair, you threw a pen at Sam. “Come on,” you ordered.


	2. Small Town Police

 

Pulling on a pair of black latex gloves, you ducked under the strip of yellow caution tape that a rookie in their blues held up for you and Sam. Your partner whistled low as he surveyed the spacious floor plan, and it wasn’t in admiration.

“Someone worked hard at covering their tracks,” Sam said.

You narrowed your eyes as you took in the sight. “Or it’s a distraction.”

“Distraction from what?” Sam scoffed.

“Inside job, maybe,” you mused, your head shaking slightly. You crouched down and grabbed some folders, their insides spilling out. Opening the file, you quickly scanned through the papers.

Sam remained standing, hands on his hips. “You find something useful?”

“Nah,” you answered. “Just some profiles and financials on a non-profit. Nothing appears out of the ordinary.”

“How do you know about out of the ordinary financials?” Sam scoffed.

Standing tall, you shoved the folders into his stomach. “My grandpa was an accountant for Howard Stark back in the day,” you rasped. “Thought it would be good for me to know, to be prepared for my future.”

You pushed past him and rolled your eyes, hating yourself for how you had snapped at Sam. It wasn’t his fault that you were crabby, and as much as you wanted to blame it on Fury, you couldn’t. You were the one that had stormed into your sergeant’s office demanding a case. What was the saying… be careful what you wish for? You had just been about to round the corner when there was a voice that didn’t belong.

“I hope you’re using gloves,” the new arrival said with an air of authority. “Would hate to see another one of The Brooklyn Bandit’s crime scene contaminated.”

Whirling around on your heel, you found Steve Rogers standing there, a dark suit clinging to his frame, an even darker wool trench coat draped over his shoulders, his hands in his pockets, an eyebrow arched. You found yourself staring and you gave yourself an internal talking to.

“Who let you up here?” you demanded to know, stalking toward the new arrival.

“I live here, officer,” Steve shot back, his tone unamused.

“It’s detective,” you growled. “Detective Y/L/N.”

“My apologies,” Rogers answered, though you didn’t believe for one second he was sorry about anything.

“In case you failed to notice, this,” you spoke slowly, hooking a thumb over your shoulder, “is an active crime scene, and you,” you took another step toward him and aimed your finger at his chest, “are not allowed to be here.”

Steve chuckled and rolled his eyes. “I live here,” he repeated himself. “Of course I’m allowed to be here.”

“Here, in your home, yes,” you snapped back. “Not here, where the  _actual_ crime took place.”

Sam was at your side, jabbing you with his elbow. “Mr. Rogers, thank you for coming in,” he greeted Steve, his hand held out, Steve shaking it a moment later.

“You called him in?” you whispered harshly to your partner. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Steve was smiling wide when you turned your attention back to him. “You were saying?”

Sam stepped in front of you, his way of making sure you didn’t say or do anything that could possibly get you fired. “Let’s go downstairs, shall we?”

With your teeth clenched, you glared at the duo as they disappeared from the room. You closed your eyes and pulled in one ragged breath after another in an effort to calm down. You hated it when people like him, the rich and entitled, talked down to you. God, you wanted to show him, show all of them, that just because they had a fuck ton of money meant absolutely nothing.

Squaring your shoulders, you turned around and headed back to Steve’s desk. There were files spread all over it, papers slipping from the edges, fluttering to the floor, joining the shards of broken glass from the window. Careful not to cut yourself, you dropped down and combed through the debris.

“Something doesn’t feel right,” you murmured to yourself.

“What’s that?” asked Peter Parker, the youngest, and newest, member of the crime scene unit.

You were shaking your head, looking at the floor, then looking at the broken window, which was on the opposite end of the room. Peter watched as you walked over, counting your steps as you went, turned your back to the window, and threw the glass in your hand back the way you had come.

Peter flinched and covered his face. “Hey, watch it.”

“I need to know the exact distance from the desk to the window,” you instructed, picking up the glass you had just thrown on your journey back. “I also need to know where the window was hit, where it would need to be hit in order to achieve the distance, what was used to smash the window, and what would need to be used in order to get glass all the way over here. Got it?”

Nodding, Peter scribbled notes onto the notepad. “Anything else, boss?”

“Get it to me as fast as you can,” you added, ripping the gloves from your hands. “I need to know what the fuck is going on here.”

* * *

Sam knocked your feet off your desk, shooting you a glare as he dropped into his seat. “You got any idea how much I had to sweet talk Rogers into  _not_  having you pulled you from the case?”

“What are you talking about?” You arched a brow as you propped your feet back on the edge of your desk.

“That little stunt you pulled back at the crime scene,” his eyebrows all but shot off his forehead. “Or did you forget.”

“You’re the one that didn’t tell me that you called him in to interview,” you accused, pointing at your partner.

Sam raked a hand over his face and scoffed. “You’re a piece of work, you know that? You come in here, full of piss and vinegar, chip on your shoulder, ready to prove a point.”

You failed to see why that was a problem. “And?”

“And,” Sam bit out, “it’s going to put a target on your back.”

With your brows pulled together, you sat up. “Is that a threat?”

Sam was shaking his head. “No, it’s just the truth. I’ve seen plenty of detectives, throwing their non-existent weight around, making enemies when you’re supposed to be making friends.”

“Just because he’s filthy rich doesn’t mean I’m gonna butter him up, Sam,” you argued.

“I get that, I do, but -”

“But what, Sam?” You were leaning forward, forearms on your desk, hands clasped together. “You talk about having a chip on my shoulder. What about Rogers? He talked to me, to  _us_ , as if we were some small town police officers. What’s the difference between me and him, huh?”

Sam sighed heavily, shaking his head at the fire in your eyes. “Forget it, Y/L/N. Just… forget it.”

* * *

You had just popped open a beer when your phone rang. It was your mom, and no matter how tired you were, no matter the shitty day you’d had, you couldn’t ignore her.

“Hey, ma,” you greeted after swiping your thumb across the screen.

She chuckled gently. “Hay is for horses, sweetie,” she joked.

Swallowing the anxiety in your throat, you asked, “How are you feeling today?”

Your mother had breast cancer, stage three, aggressive as hell, and kicking her ass. The doctor said she had twelve to eighteen months left to live. That was two years ago. During those two years, your mother had undergone a double mastectomy and five rounds of chemo, each round more hostile than the last, sucking the life from your mother. So, when you asked how she was doing, part of you really didn’t want to know, that part wanted to hear her say,  _The cancer is in remission, I’m perfect._

“As good as I can be,” she answered, her voice frail and tired. “Chemo was a bitch.”

“Isn’t it always?” you sniffled, chuckling ruefully.

“Tell me about your day, love,” she pleaded softly.

You rolled your eyes at just the thought of telling her about, not only being put on the Brooklyn Bandit case, but telling her that you’d met the infamous Steve Rogers, and he was a tool.

“Sam and I got assigned a high profile case today, the Brooklyn Bandit,” was what you said instead.

“Oh, yes,” she perked up noticeably. “I saw that on the news. That poor Steve Rogers. He does a lot of work with veterans, you know.”

You managed to hide your groan, but barely. “I know, mother.”

“What? Can’t I dream about my daughter falling in love with someone amazing like him?”

“It’s not gonna happen,” you rebutted before taking a long drink.

“I said, like him,” she clarified sternly. “Not  _him_.”

“Guy’s a douche,” you couldn’t help but mutter under your breath.

Her sharp intake of breath was more than enough of a clue that she had heard you. “Y/N Y/M/N Y/L/N, watch your tongue.”

“Sorry, mom,” you mumbled, your cheeks going red at the mental image of her standing over you as a child, her finger in your face, scolding you for saying you hated your best friend.

“You’ve always had a temper on you,” she noted, no ridicule or shame in her voice.

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Gee, I wonder where I got it from.”

When she laughed in return, it made tears well in your eyes, blurring your vision. “God, it’s good to hear you laugh, ma.”

“It’s been too long,” she confirmed before giving a yawn.

“Get some rest, okay? I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she hummed.

After disconnecting the call, you swept away the tears on your face and drained the bottle of beer quickly. Gasping for air, you pushed up from the couch, threw the bottle in the recycling, and headed into your room to change into something a little more comfortable; dark and form fitting, easier to keep yourself hidden, away from prying eyes.


End file.
